


Remnants

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped with Swindle in an old military training hut near the rust sea, Onslaught finds himself thinking of times gone by.</p><p>Pre-war setting, Dysfunction AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remnants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naboru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naboru/gifts).



"Base, come in," Onslaught yelled into his comm for the third time. Even at his loudest, his voice barely registered above the storm. "Hardwire, do you read me?"

Swindle kicked the wall of the shelter. Rust as fine as sand trickled from a crack in the roof. 

"Don't," Onslaught warned. 

Swindle rolled his optics and flopped to the floor. He grabbed hold of his case of samples and hauled it towards him. 

"Hardwire," Onslaught persevered. "Do you read?" A babble in the static could have been Hardwire trying to reply, but it could equally have been interference. "Base, pick up."

"It's all fragged," Swindle snapped. "We're never gonna make the rendezvous." 

Onslaught re-set his comm. "You were the one who agreed to a meeting at the edge of the Rust Sea," he said. "Do you always stroke the merchandise?" 

Swindle's fondling of the ammo switched abruptly to a more businesslike flicking through the cases. "I'm taking inventory." 

"You should have done that before we left," Onslaught said, knowing full well he had. 

A hail of fragments hit the outside of the shack, and Swindle glanced up.

"It's secure," Onslaught said. How often had he come here in the long distant past? Every quartex for more vorns than he cared to count, at first being trained in the tactics of desert warfare, then learning to coach others, and finally bringing his own soldiers here, instilling in them the values he had once been taught, the lessons he learned with each new encounter. It was hardly his speciality, but every planet had its deserts, every atmosphere its storms. 

He upended a crate as ancient as the shelter itself and sat on it. His lips quirked as Swindle's headlamps caught a web of scratches by the door: his own name, etched into the metal when he'd been nothing but a new-build with a gun and a head full of ambition, the names of his comrades, his platoon. The training ground had moved long ago, but the past remained.

He leaned back against the old steel wall, his shoulders settling in a well-worn groove; the rust-proof coating cracked and flaked with his weight. 

"You're going to sleep?" Swindle yelled. "I can't believe this! We gotta make the drop, I got a deal to seal here!"

Onslaught dimmed his optics. "Just resting my eyes," he said. "You'd be wise to do the same, we can't leave until the storm's over. Your contact's likely stuck in a hole just like this, fingering her unmarked cred-chips and winding herself up about it just the same as you."

Swindle snorted, but at least he closed the case. "Yeah," he said. "You're right." He reached into his hip. "Can't see me recharging though. How about we throw some dice?" he suggested. "To pass the time."

Onslaught laughed. "You don't want to wager?" he said. 

Swindle grinned. "Now that you mention it, a few creds on the line adds a bit of spice. Say five hundred a set?"

"A bit of spice? Ha!" Hadn't they used to game for shards of shrapnel and leftover field rations? Back then, five hundred creds had been a lot of money. Now? "Make it a thousand," Onslaught said. "You first."


End file.
